The Fall of the Parthenian Army
by Mrs Snowball
Summary: Major Mint prepares for a battle, but the conclusion was not what he expected. Oneshot, set about two years before the movie.


The first thing Major Mint was aware of was the dull ache in the back of his head. The second thing was that he was lying on the ground, clearly at an angle he wasn't supposed to be. How long had he been lying like that? Ten minutes? An hour? He couldn't be sure.

As he struggled to his feet, he noticed the bodies around him. Some were mice. Most were soldiers like himself, and there was no doubt about what'd happened to them.

_Something went wrong, _Mint thought to himself. Then he staggered and fell back over again. As he looked down, he realised he didn't just have to deal with a head injury; one of his ankles appeared to be damaged, and he was bleeding from a wound in his side. Well, it would do him no good to be lying around here, so he staggered to his feet and limped towards a nearby tree. Once he got there, he looked back at the bodies.

_This can't be my regiment. No, no. My regiment was supposed to defeat those mice; we were supposed to block their exit and let the General and his men finish them off... _

That had been the plan. General Winslow had dictated it right in front of him, had announced it in his loud, booming voice while he and the other officers had watched in silent admiration. It couldn't have gone wrong. Winslow's plans just didn't. That was why he was in charge of the Parthenian Military in the first place. That was the whole reason Mint respected him. Yet even as he remembered this, he found himself remembering the way the Mouse's army had charged out of the forest, taking his own men completely by surprise. He'd fought as best he could, but something had whacked him over the head just when he was finally getting the upper hand. And then...

Well, it was easy to work out what had happened from there; they'd all taken him for dead, enemies and allies alike, and gone on with the battle.

_The battle! _

It was all over now; that much he was certain. The air was still, as if even the birds had decided to stay silent. Still, this definitely didn't mean he was safe. If he managed to survive...

Mint spotted his sword lying a few inches away; it had been a present for his 21st birthday (well over twenty years ago now), and he recognised it at once. Wincing, he bent down to pick it up before springing back to his full height again. For a moment, he wondered why he couldn't seem to see clearly. Then he realised his monocle had fallen out and replaced it quickly.

_Not broken, thank heavens... _

He wished he could be so sure about his ankle. The wound in his side didn't appear to be too deep – might still cause him trouble later on, though – and his head had been saved from any real damage by his helmet, but the ankle would definitely be a problem; and, somehow, he doubted he'd be getting medical attention anytime soon. He staggered gingerly around the clearing where he'd fallen.

The mouse soldiers all appeared to be dead. Unfortunately, so did the men. It was only then, as he looked upon those broken bodies who had, once, been fine soldiers, that he began to wonder what the result had been of this battle.

Then he reached the edge of the slope, and his questions were answered for him.

"This is us," Winslow had said, "and this is them."

The officers were gathered in the General's tent, watching carefully as Winslow moved several small pieces across a map. They were red; the Mouse's army were blue. The Major and the others had noted with some satisfaction that their enemy was a lot smaller in number.

The General caught them looking and smiled. "A thousand of us, and a hundred of them! What we'll do, men, is we'll surround them. Block off their retreat and crush that whole army! That'll knock that blasted rodent off the throne!"

"How will we do that?" asked one of the younger officers. The Major had to hand it to Winslow; had that been him, he would have been annoyed at the man's insolence. But Winslow, who had a slightly better temper, stroked his thick red beard and smiled.

"Superior numbers, that's how! The main body of the army will start here," he said, pointed to the larger blotch of red. "Curler, Botts; you will attack from the left. Once the Mouse's army charges us, you come in there from behind. Mint, Greyson; you attack from the right. Wait up in the hills and approach them when you see them move."

In that room, with that confident atmosphere wafting from Winslow like the stink of those cigars he always smoked, it almost seemed like it could work. By the same time tomorrow, all those rodents would be gone.

And then Browning had to spoil it all.

"Sir," he'd said, his hand quivering. "I'm concerned about the men. They don't seem very... well, convinced."

Winslow's eyes narrowed. "Why not?" he asked.

"It's Prince Eric's desertion, General. It's shaken them up a little bit."

There were mutters of disgust. The Prince, the rightful heir to the Parthenian throne, was supposed to have led them in the charge. Unfortunately, he'd vanished – fled, some people said – and left Winslow to do his job. To these men, who were willing to sacrifice themselves for the good of the kingdom, such behaviour from a member of the Royal Family was downright despicable.

"Tell them to get past it," Winslow instructed the younger officer. "Wishing won't make that boy come back! We have a job to do, and we need every man on board if we want to do it right."

"I'll tell them, sir." Browning saluted and walked out of the door. The other men tried to engage in some positive talk, but the damage was already done. When Browning left, all the optimism in that room was sucked out with him.

Browning was down there somewhere. Botts, Greyson and Curler, too.

The Major and his regiment had been positioned on the edge of the forest, right on top of a hill which sloped down sharply into a field where the main battle was due to take place. When he'd first seen it, the field had seemed as green as the others in Parthenia. Now it was splashed with red. As he scanned the hundreds of bodies, he saw only a few mouse soldiers among scores of men from his own army. The sight of it – the loss, the horror, the sheer _carnage _of it – almost made him feel sick.

_A thousand of us and a hundred of them, _he remembered, seeing Winslow's grinning face in his mind's eye. Would they have spared him? Probably not. They certainly didn't spare anyone else. _A thousand of us and a hundred of them... _

He refused to accept it. It just wasn't possible, and he wasn't going to accept it anymore than he was going to accept the fact that his army was-

Mint shook his head firmly. No. No, this was not happening. He wasn't the only one left. He couldn't be. This was the Parthenian Army, the strongest military force for miles around. It couldn't have been wiped out by a bunch of wretched mice. It _couldn't_...

He had to get out of here. He needed medical assistance; he wasn't sure how deep the wound in his side was, but he knew it couldn't be good. Grimacing, he turned away and limped towards the shelter of the trees. The field of broken bodies vanished from view, but it wouldn't vanish from the Major's mind. He didn't think it ever would.

Robert Mint had joined the army at 21 and had devoted his life to it ever since. He had no friends who weren't soldiers, no relationships with anyone outside of his own family (and even they were shaky at best); he had put all his effort into becoming an officer. One day, he would have become a general. He had been convinced of it. But now he never would. Now, he had nothing. His friends, his knowledge, his whole livelihood was lying there in that field.

_They're dead. Wiped out. Gone. _

But Major Mint had never been one for wallowing in self pity. The army was not completely gone. He was still here, and he was going to do his duty until the day he died; and, he decided right there and then, he would not die at the hand of the Mouse King.

Then he saw lights in the distance, and made his way towards them.


End file.
